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- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
A collection of three crime mysteries by Giles Ekins, now available in one volume!
Dead Girl Found: When Janet hears her deceased daughter's voice accusing her husband of abuse during a spiritualist meeting, it sets off a chain of events that leads to the deaths of both parents. DCI Grace Swan is called in to investigate, but she's still reeling from the loss of her partner and struggling with her superiors. Told from alternating viewpoints, Dead Girl Found is a thrilling murder mystery that keeps you guessing which side holds the truth.
Gallows Walk: As DI Christopher Yarrow delves deeper into the investigation of the bungled bank robbery in West Garside, the small town becomes more and more tense. The killer, who has already taken two lives, is still at large and seems to be taunting Yarrow and his team at every turn. With the pressure mounting, Yarrow must race against the clock to catch the killer before he strikes again. But as he uncovers more about the killer's identity, he begins to realize that this case may be more complicated than he ever imagined. Will he be able to solve the case before it's too late?
Murder By Illusion: Stage illusionist Charlie Chilton's career is going nowhere until the mysterious Asmodeus Tchort offers him a deal to become the most famous illusionist in the world. Charlie's success quickly follows, but soon he finds himself haunted by nightmares and plagued by gruesome murders as he tours his new act around the country. As the bodies pile up, Charlie begins to wonder if he has become a killer himself, and the true identity of his benefactor becomes more and more unclear.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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SECRETS AND SHADOWS
A COLLECTION OF CRIME MYSTERY NOVELS
GILES EKINS
CONTENTS
Dead Girl Found
Prologue
I. A Message, The Killings And An Investigation
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
II. Two Rapes, A Confession And A Secret Revealed
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Next in the Series
Gallows Walk
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Epilogue
Next in the Series
Murder By Illusion
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Atermath
Epilogue
Author's Note
About the Author
Copyright (C) 2023 Giles Ekins
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 Next Chapter
Published 2023 by Next Chapter
Cover art by CoverMint
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
DEAD GIRL FOUND
DCI GRACE SWAN THRILLERS BOOK 1
For Patricia as always
PROLOGUE
DEAD GIRL FOUND
It was the smell.
The smell of death, the sickly-sweet stench of decomposition oozing through the partially opened door of an attic flat in North London.
PC Eric Samuels, a tall, barrel-chested black man with a shaved head, had smelled this deathly odour before; the memory of it never left you. However, probationer PC Wayne Ellescar had not, and turned a sickly, pale-white hue, trying not to throw up.
“Listen, Wayne, you going to be sick? Get outside and do it, OK, man?”
Samuels turned to a middle-aged man standing nearby with a key in one hand, a mobile phone in the other. He seemed at ease with the vile smell.
“Are you the landlord, sir?”
“Yes, my name is Hussein. I phoned for you as soon as I opened the door.”
“Did you go inside?”
“Just briefly. To check. I know what such a smell means.”
“And how do you know what the smell means, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I come from Iraq. The smell of dead bodies is not unknown there.”
“Is everything all right? I mean, I keep on knocking on her door, but she never answers?” came a voice from below. All three men turned around to look. An elderly lady, leaning heavily on the handrail, was making her way up the stairs.
“Who are you, love?” Samuels asked, moving to block her from going up any further.
“Hansen, Mrs Ivy Hansen. I live down below. I saw you coppers come up and wondered if she’s all right, the girl? I’ve knocked on the door a few times ‘cos I haven’t seen her lately. And then there’s the smell. Must be the drains. I’m going to complain to the landlord, Mr Sodding Hussein, if he ever bothers to come around.”
“Mrs Hansen, hello! And how are you this morning?” the landlord called to her.
“Oh, it is you! ‘Bout time you showed yourself, what with that smell an’ all. But I’m worried about the girl, is she all right?” she said, as she tried to peer around the bulk of PC Samuels.
“You get yourself back downstairs, my lovely,” said Samuels firmly. “There’s nothing for you up here.”
“Only being neighbourly. I’m concerned. S’only human nature to be concerned for your neighbour, in’t it?” she persisted, determined not to miss out on whatever it was that was going on.
“OK, darlin’,” Samuels said, going down to the old lady and taking her gently by the arm. She smelled of musty clothes and body odour, overlaid with douses of lavender water. “Let me help you back down to your rooms, OK? You get inside, make yourself a nice cup of tea, and we’ll be down later for a chat.”
PC Samuels firmly shut the door on her and quickly ran back upstairs.
“You’d best wait downstairs, sir,” he said to Hussein. “This may be a crime scene.”
“Yes. Understood. I’ll wait downstairs. No doubt you will need details of the tenant. Julia. Julia Jarrett. If it is her, that is.”
Hussein turned away and went down the stairs.
“You stay here, Wayne,” Samuels said. “No need for us both to go in just yet. You make sure Hussein or the old biddy don’t come creeping back up again, OK?”
“OK.”
Samuels cautiously nudged the door open with his foot. The silence was tangible, the absolute silence of death that seemed to blanket and muffle all other sounds. He slowly walked inside, holding a hand over his face and nose.
Throughout his 30-year career in the police, he had attended scenes with decomposing bodies: the lonely old pensioner dying alone and unwanted, the homeless guy living under the viaduct, and the starved baby of an alcoholic drug addict mother, who, in her drunken habituated state, forgot that she even had a child.
All these memories flooded into Eric Samuels’s mind unbidden, the stench, as always, triggering the lyrics of Billie Holiday’s classic recording of Strange Fruit. He did not remember all the words, but two lines always came to him:
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh
It was a powerful song about the lynching of negroes in the American South, which, as a black man, he could readily relate to. But it was not the smell of burning flesh, but of decomposing flesh.
To his surprise, the room was larger than expected. In the furthest corner, he could see a toilet, wash basin, and shower cubicle, screened off by a plastic curtain. There was a kitchen worktop with a sink piled high with food-encrusted dishes, an under-counter cupboard and a wall cupboard, cooker and fridge.
The bed was unmade, with grey-stained sheets and a pale blue duvet hanging down to the floor. A two-seat settee covered in red fabric, a wardrobe, glass-topped coffee table, and a TV cabinet with a Sony TV made up the rest of the furnishings.
The room was laid with a pale grey carpet showing a dark red stain by the settee, and clothes and dirty towels were heaped up in one corner.
On the coffee table was an empty bottle of supermarket vodka, a coffee mug, an overflowing ashtray, a packet of roll-up tobacco, Rizla papers, and a box of matches. Also, there was a blackened teaspoon, cotton wool balls, three opened foil wraps with a residue of brown crystals, together with a length of rubber tubing and a small plastic bag with some cannabis resin.
All this Samuels took in without consciously doing so, but he could have given a comprehensive description of the entire room and its squalid contents, and drawn a detailed plan of the layout from memory.
The dead girl was lying on the floor in front of the settee, half on her knees, her upper body and head pressing down on the carpet in a grim parody of a yoga position. It was as if she had leaned over too far whilst seated on the settee and fallen forwards, onto her knees and then head first onto the floor, her arms splayed out to either side of her. Her head was turned to the left, towards the door, as though looking for aid which never came.
She was, Samuels thought, aged about 19 or 20 years. The left half of her head was shaved, and her skull tattooed with a ragged swirling spiral, like some primitive aquatic worm, whilst a crown of thorns encircled her neck. Her left arm was also heavily tattooed, but the needle marks and veins, which stood out stark and blackened from the ascorbic acid used to dissolve heroin, could not be disguised.
She was partially clad in stained white knickers, a grey T-shirt rucked up over her skeletal thin back, revealing a white bra fastened by only one hook, and she had a pink sock on her right foot only. There was a butterfly tattoo over her left ankle.
The body was swollen and bloated, the top layer of skin was loose, with a greenish sheen and visible red patches. Bloody foam had leaked from the mouth and nose, and the skin of her fingertips had turned green, swelling across her nails.
It was winter, and the squalid room was cold, for which Samuels was glad. Had it been spring or summer, the body would have been swarming with blowflies and maggots. Even so, a few maggots still crawled about the soft flesh of the girl’s lips, and he resisted an impulse to brush them off; the development stage of the infestation would assist in determining how long the girl had been dead.
PC Eric Samuels was no pathologist but knew enough to guess that the girl had been dead for over a week, possibly 8 to 10 days.
A syringe, dried blood at the tip and in the tube, lay next to her outflung right arm.
“Overdose,” he said in a quiet, sad voice. He was the father of two daughters in their twenties and tried to imagine how it would feel if it was one of his own girls lying there. “You poor, poor girl, however did it come to this, eh sweetheart?”
She might once have been very pretty, but decomposition does not beautify the dead. Death did not become her.
He mouthed a silent prayer, took a last look around the room and then went back to the door to call in his partner. “Take a quick look, don’t touch nothing, mind, and I’ll call it in,” he said.
The Coroner would, of course, order an autopsy, but Samuels had no doubt in his mind that the girl had died from a heroin overdose.
A MESSAGE, THE KILLINGS AND AN INVESTIGATION
CHAPTERONE
The town of West Garside lies some 16 miles to the northwest of Sheffield in South Yorkshire, huddled up against and climbing the lower reaches of the Pennines, nestled into the slopes and valleys and spread along the flatlands of the River Gar. Always growing, the town reached out in timid fingers of development towards its big city sister of Sheffield, whose own ribbons of expansion crept ever closer. Soon, these fingers would touch and forever entwine.
With a population of 137,000 at the last census, the town of West Garside boasts a College of Arts, a civic theatre and the newly opened Riverside Mall, which has a Marks and Spencer store anchoring one end and an Aldi at the other; the usual high street shops, as well as a multiplex cinema and bowling alley.
The town had a non-league football team, and there are seven 24-storey council tower blocks, some clad in the same flammable material as the Grenfell Tower in London, scene of the worst fire disaster seen in Britain for many, many years.
New light industrial factories and wholesale warehouses spread out along the riverside, whilst the older parts of the town’s largely defunct industrial area, centred around Redemption Island, have now been gentrified. Factories and warehouses have been converted into trendy apartments. Restaurants proliferate along with specialist coffee shops, gourmet pizza parlours, handmade burger bars, small craft breweries and bakeries specialising in artisan breads.
The old Duckworth and Dawes Brewery has been demolished and the site redeveloped into apartments. The only feature remaining from the brewery is the stone and cast-iron entrance arch with the words ‘Duckworth and Dawes Brewery’ curving in green letters around the top of the arch.
Two local coal mines, Garside Main and Reculver Two, closed within a year of the miners’ strike of 1993, when Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and miners’ union leader Arthur Scargill butted heads and egos.
The steelworks of Alexander and Matthew Ltd are much diminished in size and now concentrate on the production of specialist high-grade steel, mainly for the aerospace industry. It had once been the largest employer in town, but it is the West Garside Council that now has the most employees.
In the opinion of Donald Jarrett, the council is full of Trotskyite jobsworths, with leftie-leaning, Guardian-reading social workers, cottaging and dogging outreach workers, health and safety zealots, Stalinist traffic wardens and busybodies spying to see if you put the wrong rubbish in one of the different-coloured bins.
But at this moment, Donald Jarrett had far more tragic affairs on his mind. All the colour had drained from his face and tears rolled down his cheeks, pain-filled tears that he somehow thought would seem disrespectful to wipe away. They were a visual confirmation of his anguish.
He was seated on the settee in the front room of his house, his arms about his sobbing wife Janet. She held her head in her hands, weeping uncontrollably. Inspector David Boothroyd looked on sympathetically. Of all the jobs a copper has to do, he thought, this is the worst; informing relatives that a loved one has died unexpectedly.
There is no easy way to tell a relative that their loved one has been killed in a car crash, suffered a sudden heart attack, been stabbed to death in a fight at the pub, that their child has been killed playing chicken on the railway lines or that a loving husband has died in an accident at work. The inevitability of sudden death is ever present; the Grim Reaper never very far away.
Sergeant Mary Tanner stood at the side of Donald Jarrett, a comforting hand on his shoulder, whilst Family Liaison Officer Kimberly Johnson sat on the other side of Janet, her arm wrapped around the sobbing, distraught mother of Julia Jarrett, found dead from an overdose in a squalid bedsit in north London.
‘I really am most sorry,’ Boothroyd said again. What can you say, he thought, however heartfelt your words might be, they’re only platitudes and nothing you say can soothe the distress or heal the raw wounds of grief and pain.
Janet looked up at him, her face swollen and red-eyed, clutching at a sodden tissue as though it were a lifesaver. ‘Is… is there any doubt? I mean, is there any doubt that it’s Julia? Could it be a mistake, mistaken identity?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Jarrett, no, there is no doubt that it is Julia. Bank cards, driving licence and benefits correspondence were all found with her. A formal identification of the… her body will be necessary, but please do not hold out any hope that it may not be Julia. I am so sorry.’
Janet sobbed out loud again, her last hope that it was all some ghastly mistake, a hideous nightmare from which she would soon wake up, dashed away. Taking a fresh tissue from the box held by Kimberly, she dabbed at her eyes again and turned towards her son David, who stood by the front window, looking outwards, seemingly oblivious to the tragic scene playing out around him.
‘David, did you hear that, it is our Julia. She’s dead, David. Dead. Oh God. No. No.’
‘Yes, yes, I heard. Julia’s dead. Sorry,’ he responded dully, still staring out of the window, not even turning to look at her.
‘Is that all you can say? Sorry? Your sister is dead and all you can say is sorry? Sorry?’
‘What do you want me to say? Look, I’m sorry she’s dead, but am I heartbroken? No.’
My God, thought Mary Tanner, he’s a callous little bastard, can’t he see that his mother is devastated, totally devastated?
‘Always so cruel, David,’ sobbed Janet. ‘Julia’s dead and you’ve nothing to say about it?’
‘OK. I’m sorry. And sorry for the way it happened. But look, she filled her arm with shit heroin, nobody else, and she OD’d on it. Yeah, it’s tragic and all that, but what more is there to say? She did it to herself. End of.’ At that, David Jarrett took his mobile phone from his pocket, switched it on, checked for messages, turned on his heel and walked out.
‘David, David, wait, please, wait,’ Janet called after him in anguish.
‘I’m outta here. Can’t take all this hysteria shit.’
‘Let him go, love,’ said Donald. ‘He’ll be back, he’s just upset, that’s all, he can’t really face up to it yet. He’ll be back soon enough, and you’ll see that he’s upset, really upset about our Julia, honest.’
The front door slammed shut and a minute or so later a car drove away with a squeal of tyres as it sped out into the road.
Janet burst out with fresh sobs, ‘Donald, why is he always like that towards me? No matter what, he’s always like that. It’s as if he hates us—hates me, anyway, and after all we do for him.’
Donald could only shrug in mute impotence. He had run out of excuses for David’s behaviour. Truth be known, he was just a nasty little shit with a barrow load of resentments and bitterness towards them and the world in general.
The sooner he gets himself off his backside and moves out of here, the better.
CHAPTERTWO
SEVEN WEEKS LATER
He spotted her walking down on the opposite side of the road. Chloe! Chloe Macbeth, once his sister’s best friend, in and out of the house all the time, as if she lived there. Inseparable they were, almost joined at the hip, like Siamese twins.
He waited for a gap in the traffic, then hurried across the road to intercept her. She looked different from the last time he had seen her, but that was two years or so ago, in fact, not long after Julia pissed off down to London and started pumping that shit into her arm.
He was 27, nigh on 28, about 5’10’’ in height and of slight build. His hair was thick and dark, which he sometimes wore in a tight curl at the back of his head. His clothes, mostly jeans and sweatshirts, although clean, were rarely pressed, and he carried a permanent scowl across his face, a scowl that reflected his attitude in life, ‘If they don’t like it, tough shit!’
Chloe had her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, which swayed from side to side as she walked. She wore a pale green roll-neck sweater, jeans with designer rips to the knees and frayed, raggedy bottoms, and a pair of dark-red Converse shoes. He could see that she was oblivious to her surroundings, earbuds plugged in as she listened to music on her iPhone, her head nodding in time to whatever she was listening to.
He stood in front of her as she approached and held his arms out in greeting. At first, she did not notice him, too engrossed in her music. He waved his arms at her, trying to attract her attention. She looked up, saw who it was and tried to dodge away to one side, but he stepped in front of her to block the way. She swerved in the other direction, but again he got in front of her, forcing her to halt. Irritated, she pulled out the earbuds and glared at him.
‘David Jarrett! What do you want? I’m in a hurry.’
‘Just to say hello, for old times’ sake, you know. I’ve not seen you around in a while, is all.’
‘OK, hello David. How are you? How are your mum and dad?’ Chloe asked out of politeness, not that she felt any need to do so.
‘Total zombies, if you want to know. Donald moons around, hitting the bottle hard. And Janet? Janet just goes to all these spiritualist meetings, you know, convening with the dead and all that shit.’
‘Well, say hi to them,’ but David still tried to block her way as she made to move on past.
‘What’s the hurry, eh? Like I said, not seen you around for a while.’
At 5’9’’, Chloe was nearly as tall as David as she glowered into his face. ‘I’ve been away. Now let me pass.’
But still he blocked her way, grinning at her as if it was a childish game they were playing.
‘Been away? Somewhere nice? What, sun, sex and sangria in Magaluf?’
‘Askham Grange, if you must know. Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Askham Grange? What’s that then when it’s at home? A fancy spa resort?’
‘Hardly. It’s a women’s prison. Now I really must go,’ she said, trying once again to get past him, without success.
‘Prison, eh? Cool. Waddya do?’
‘I stabbed this guy who was pestering me in the street.’
‘Yeah, yeah, you always were a joker, Chloe. Look, why don’t you come round sometime? We could have some fun, just like we used to, you, Julia and me, OK? For old times’ sake. What do ya say?’
‘God, you are one sick puppy. Julia’s barely cold in her grave, and here you are sniffing around like a dog over a pool of his own vomit. It’s pathetic. And sick. Now let me pass.’
‘Think about it, why not? Just think about it.’
‘It’s never going to happen. I’d rather go back to prison. Look, whatever happened, happened a long time ago. I’ve moved on. Not going back there.’ She dodged from side to side to try and pass, but each time he blocked her way with his arms.
‘Look, don’t be hasty. I’ll give you a call, right? Give me your mobile number, I’ll give you a call. Fix something up?’
‘David. How can I say this politely? Just fuck off, right? Fuck off!’
And this time she did get past him and hurried down the street, seething with anger. He stared after her.
‘Bitch,’ he mouthed at her departing back, just as rain began to spatter down. He pulled up the hood of his black sweatshirt with a ‘Manifest Skateboards’ logo on the chest and hurried into Waterstone’s, where he stayed until the rain eased up.
CHAPTERTHREE
Even after she had reached home, Chloe was still angry. Angry and deeply annoyed with David Jarrett for intruding into her life again like that.
Bastard!
She lay down on her bed, pulled Jeremy over and pressed him to her breast. Jeremy was a teddy bear, in Chloe’s opinion, a highly intelligent and perceptive bear with whom she often held imaginary conversations.
Chloe told Jeremy about her encounter with David Jarrett. Who the hell did he think he was, harassing me like that, eh? Jeremy listened quietly, just nodding in sympathy from time to time.
After she had finished, Chloe picked up her iPhone and began scrolling through her photographs. She had one special photograph in mind. She flicked through rapidly, the images flashing before her eyes. She saw the one she wanted slide past and scrolled back to it. It was a selfie of herself and another girl, both giggling and smiling into the camera lens. Chloe looked at the photo for a minute or so as a tear trickled down her cheek and then kissed the image.
‘Miss you, babes,’ she whispered and hugged Jeremy even tighter.
CHAPTERFOUR
FOUR MONTHS AFTER THE DEATH OF JULIA JARRETT
He really should not have had that last calvados, tasty as it was.
Or the one before that.
And if truth be told, not even the one before that. He’d also drunk a couple of pints of ‘Farmers Blonde’ whilst waiting for the others, and then the wine had flowed freely over the meal. But he was OK to drive, no problem, whatever his wife Stella might say.
DCI George Chatham, from West Garside CID, together with Stella, regularly met up with long-standing friends, Inspector Dave Boothroyd and his wife Sue, and DS Fred Burbage, who was currently between divorces. Every two or so months they would go out for a meal at a pub or restaurant, had done so for years, the men taking it in turns to choose the location, not always to the approval of the ladies.
This time they had dined at ‘The Horns’, a pub out on Staines Moor, about 11 miles from town. ‘The Horns’ was noted for its steaks, supplied by a local farmer, and all three men had chosen them. George liked his well done, charcoaled according to Stella, as did Fred, whilst Dave had his blue rare.
The two wives chose scampi, and all the dishes came served with ‘hand-cut, triple-fried, gourmet chips’, which looked and tasted no different from the ones George and Stella bought from their local fish and chip shop, only costing three times as much for a third of the quantity.
Stella and Sue shared and drank about two-thirds of a bottle of prosecco. George, Dave and Fred got through three bottles of Argentinian Malbec, although George drank the most and was ready to order a fourth bottle, but the others declined, so he ordered the calvados instead, ignoring Stella’s angry looks when he ordered another.
George was feeling bloody-minded and bullish, in that sullen mood when the more he drank, the soberer he felt, even though Stella and the others could clearly see the effects. His eyes were glazing, his speech ever so slightly slurred and, as he stood up from the table, he staggered and wavered before recovering his balance.
They settled the bill, splitting it three ways down the line as usual, which was a bit unfair since George had drunk by far the most, whilst Fred was paying a share of Sue and Stella’s meal as well as his own. But he was outranked by the other two and so said nothing, even though he grumbled about it to himself. ‘Always the bloody same, coughing up way more than my fair share.’
They said their goodbyes, hugged and kissed, and George and Stella walked out to the car park, whilst Sue made a last visit to the Ladies.
Dave and Sue were giving Fred a lift home with Sue driving, whilst everybody, apart from George, assumed that Stella would be driving, but he had other ideas. He walked straight to the driver’s side of the car, a Saab 9-5, 2.0 Aero. He loved his Saab, nine years old now, one of the last to roll off the production line in Trollhättan, Sweden, but he refused to part with it. Not that he couldn’t afford something new, a BMW or Merc, but he just loved his Saab and that was the end of it. ‘Be a classic one day,’ he was fond of saying to anybody who cared to listen.
Stella drove a yellow Fiat 500, but he refused to be seen dead in that. In any case, at 6’4’’ and the best part of 20 stone, he could barely fit in anyway. ‘Bloody motorised pram,’ he called it, and insisted on taking the Saab whenever they went out together. He drove one way, Stella always drove back after he’d had a drink or three. He thought it a thoroughly equitable division of labour.
He took the keys from his pocket and clicked on the fob to unlock the doors.
‘Pass the keys, George. I’m driving. You’re in no fit state.’
‘Bugger that, I’m driving. Get in.’ He opened the door and clumsily climbed in behind the wheel.
‘No, George, you’ve had far too much. All that wine and calvados. Let me drive. Please.’
‘I told you no. Now get in the bloody car.’
‘Please, George, let me drive. Give me the keys.’
‘How many more times? No. Now get in the car, else you’re walking home.’
Stella had seen him in this mood before. Bloody-minded and wilful, more than capable of driving off and leaving her behind. ‘OK,’ she said as she got into the passenger seat and buckled up her seat belt. ‘Just take it slowly. It’s dark and the roads are narrow and winding. Just take it slowly, OK, George? Promise?’
George grunted something, which might have been a yes or no, as he fumbled to get the key into the ignition, located behind the gear lever on the central console between the seats. ‘Stupid fucking place to put it,’ he grumbled. Eventually, he got the key in place and started the engine, put the gear lever into drive and drove off.
‘Lights, George, turn the lights on.’
‘Yeah, yeah, doin’ it.’
A red warning light located above the mirror flashed on, ‘FASTEN BELTS’.
‘George, your seat belt.’
Driving with one hand on the wheel, George fumbled his seat belt into place before speeding out of the car park.
‘Slow down,’ Stella yelled, grabbing onto the sides of her seat.
The roads down from the moor were, as Stella had pointed out, narrow and winding, twisting around a steep drop to the valley below. George was driving too fast for the roads, his reactions far too slow, braking sharply as the bends came upon him too quickly, oversteering as he exited a corner and bounced across a low grassy bank. An oncoming car approached, flashing its main beams to tell George to dip his, but he was too slow to react, and the other car flashed past with a blare of the horn.
‘What’s your fucking problem?’ George shouted.
The road now passed through a forested area, managed by the Forestry Commission, and the trees, mostly conifers, dark and menacing, seemed to close in around the car, making the twisty roads seem even darker and narrower.
‘Slow down, George, for God’s sake, slow down. Please let me drive or at least slow down, please.’
‘For fuck’s sake, woman, just shut up, will you?’ George turned and snarled at her, taking his bleary eyes off the road. It was that split second, that split second that drags out into eternity.
The Saab was into the corner much too quickly, and even if he had been sober, George could never have taken the bend at that speed. He fought the wheel, an age too late. Stella screamed as the car hit the grass bank at the roadside at an angle, careening across the road to the other side. It flew over the banking, crashing headfirst into a stand of thick pine trees. George was thrown forward as the steering wheel airbag exploded into his face.
Stella, although badly hurt and shaken, certain she had broken some ribs, had the presence of mind to turn off the ignition. George crumpled back into his seat and slumped down, unmoving.
The silence was sudden and frightening.
‘George, George,’ she screamed, clutching at his arm, shaking it as if to wake him up.
‘George,’ she screamed again, sobbing with pain and anguish, fearful for her husband. They had crashed on a darkened country road, miles from anywhere. George was injured, unconscious, and the weight of it all suddenly bore down on her, and she burst into racking tears, clutching again at George, pleading for him to respond.
Dave and Sue Boothroyd, with Fred Burbage sitting in the back, came around the bend and saw the Saab, crashed and crumpled in the trees on the other side of the road, its headlights spearing into the dark forest night, as if searching for woodland creatures, the front nearside wheel still lazily spinning round and round.
‘Fuck! Fucking hell, it’s George and Stella. Sue, pull over. Pull over,’ shouted Dave, and Sue pulled the Mondeo as far off the road as she could. Before the car was fully at rest, Dave and Fred leapt out and ran across the road.
‘Bloody hell, no! George was driving,’ Fred shouted across, ‘What the hell was he doing behind the wheel? He was pissed out of his skull!’
‘Dunno, but you know what he’s like when he’s had a few, there’s no talking to him.’
The Saab doors were locked, and Dave rapped upon the window. Stella screamed as she saw a face staring in at her before realising that it was Dave. Painfully, she reached down to press the central locking switch so that Dave and Fred could open the doors.
Dave half-carried the whimpering Stella across to his own car, opened the back door, and laid her down across the back seat.
‘George,’ she moaned, ‘get him out. Get him out.’
‘No, Stella love, best to leave it for the paramedics when the ambulance comes. He might have spinal injuries, best to let the experts deal with him. You just lie here quiet-like, and we’ll sort it. George’ll be all right, you’ll see.’
He ran to the back of his car, opened the boot and took out an emergency warning triangle and a powerful torch. He then ran back up the road for fifty yards and placed the triangle at the side of the road. He handed Sue the torch and told her to wave down any cars that came down; the last thing they needed was for a speeding car to hurtle into the accident scene. Cars coming from the other direction would have a clearer sight and more warning of the accident.
‘Fred,’ he shouted, ‘get on the phone, get the lads over, we’ll need the fire brigade and an ambulance double sharpish.’
‘Already tried that, there’s no signal down here.’
‘Shit! Right, Sue had better take the car, turn it around where she can, and get back up to the Horns, call it in from there. Sue,’ he shouted, ‘get back down here. Fred, you take the torch. I’ll do what I can to make George comfortable.’ Twenty minutes later, Sue came back, having called the emergency services.
It was another twenty minutes before the fire brigade arrived. Police cars, blue lights flashing, now blocked off the road at either end, preventing any further unofficial traffic. An ambulance followed shortly.
The paramedics and the fire brigade commander agreed that the only way to extract George without causing further injury was to cut the roof from the car and lift him out that way.
Almost two hours after the crash, George was finally lifted out from the wrecked Saab and placed in the ambulance. Stella got in with him, and with lights flashing, the ambulance sped away. Stella held his hand throughout the journey. ‘George, darling,’ she repeated over and over. ‘George, darling, come back to me. Come back to me.’
Paramedics worked on him ceaselessly, but when the ambulance finally reached the West Garside General Hospital, DCI George Chatham was pronounced dead on arrival.
CHAPTERFIVE
He wasn’t looking forward to the evening at all, but his wife was insistent.
Newcastle United were playing Real Madrid in the Champions League, the game showing live on Sky Sports, and he’d far rather be watching that than going through this purgatory again, but Janet wouldn’t listen. They’d already had one row about it before leaving the house.
Donald Jarrett drove slowly down Chapel Street, in the Easedale district of West Garside, looking for a space to park.
‘There,’ pointed Janet, ‘behind that blue Golf.’
‘Yeah, I see.’
He signalled and expertly reversed the silver Volvo S90 into the space.
‘Are you sure we have to go through this again?’ he asked.
‘Yes, we do,’ Janet snapped in annoyance and got out of the car before Donald could say anything else. With a heavy sigh of resignation, he waited for a car to pass before getting out, catching her up as she strode away.
‘Listen, Janet, I told you, Newcastle are playing tonight. Big important game. Real Madrid. I don’t really want to miss it, you know? Can’t we just go back home and forget about this nonsense?’
‘Football’s more important to you than your daughter, is that what you’re telling me?’
‘No. No, it’s not that. You know it’s not that,’ he said as he tried to take her arm. ‘But she’s gone, Janet. Gone. And we have to move on. You know that. And you know you’ll only get upset all over again.’
The heels on Janet’s shoes clacked angrily as she pushed past his arm.
‘No, you’re wrong. I do get comfort, Donald. Solace. There are often other people who’ve been through the same thing, who’ve had similar tragedies. I can talk to them.’ She stopped, a tear rolling down her face; angrily, she wiped it away.
‘You won’t ever talk about it, Donald. Ever. And I’m always thinking about it. She’s on my mind all day, every single day, and I have to understand what happened. I need to know why. What did we do so wrong, so very wrong that she ended up like that? Didn’t we love her enough? I need to know, and it’s killing me, and this is the only way I’ll ever find out.’
‘Spiritualism? Communing with the dead? It’s bollocks, Janet. All bollocks. You know it and I know it, but you just won’t admit it to yourself.’
‘Well, I’m going. Don’t come if you don’t want to. Take the car and go home, watch your stupid bloody football. I’ll walk home,’ and at that, Janet strode away again.
Donald caught up with her. ‘No, no, don’t be like that. I’ll come, of course I’ll come, but this is the last time, OK? The very last one. The very last time we waste our time and money on rubbish like this.’
‘No, Donald, I’ll go whenever I want to, but you don’t have to come anymore. You don’t believe in it anyway.’
‘No, no, I don’t. I think they’re all con men, preying on the emotionally distressed. If you want my opinion, these so-called spiritualists, whatever you want to call them, are frauds and con men.’
‘But you miss the point, don’t you? If bereaved people find some comfort, some solace, what’s the harm?’
‘It means that they’re taking money under false pretences. It’s fraud, however you look at it.’
‘Fine! You’ve made your point. Can we go in now?’
The Easedale Community Hall had been built in the 1950s; flat-roofed with a pebble-dash and paint exterior, it looked shabby, unwanted, and it was only the dedication of volunteer workers that kept it open, with bingo nights, children’s parties, ballet lessons, art, yoga, tai chi and activities such as this evening’s event.
It began to rain again as Donald and Janet hurried up to the doorway of the hall. A flyer mounted in a glass-fronted outdoor notice board proclaimed:
AN EVENING OF SPIRITUALISM
Do you want to communicate with Your Dear Departed Loved Ones?
The renowned spiritualist and clairvoyant SEBASTIAN SERRANO will hold a meeting at the Easedale Community Centre, Chapel Street, West Garside.
Wednesday 15 August at 7.30 pm.
All are welcome.
Private consultations are available by prior appointment.
Admission: Advance tickets: £17.00, for purchase at: [email protected]
At the door: £18.00. Cash only.
Janet handed their tickets to a girl volunteer wearing a purple T-shirt with “Easedale Community Centre” in yellow letters embroidered across the chest. She directed them into a smaller side room rather than the main hall.
‘Not many people have bought tickets for tonight,’ she told them, ‘so Sebastian thought it might be more intimate in the small room, more conducive for the spirits, he says,’ but the look on her face clearly showed what she thought of it all.
Red plastic chairs had been laid out in a shallow curving layout facing one end of the room. At most there were twenty people in the audience, and so Donald and Janet could take seats in the second row as another half dozen people trickled into the room and took their seats.
Donald looked around him, curling his lip in disdain at the cheap, shoddy surroundings: grey vinyl tiles on the floor, off-white paint with a greenish tinge on the walls, fissured ceiling tiles laid on a white enamelled grid, and suspended fluorescent strip lighting. ‘Jesus, this guy, whatever his name is, Serrano, must be at the bottom of the spiritualist’s league if this is the best venue he can get.’
Donald Jarrett was 58 years old, a shade under 6’0’’ tall, with a full head of greying blonde hair. He was successful, well respected in the business community, liked in his neighbourhood, but as with his wife Janet, his world had been turned upside down with the death of his daughter. Julia’s death had ripped his heart to shreds. He thought about her every day. He lay in bed at night, unable to sleep for the pain of it, and so found Janet’s accusations that he did not care intensely hurtful.
All right, he knew that he internalised his grief, held it inside him, and maybe did not express it as openly as others might. But it did not mean that he did not care. That he was not torn apart and hurting. But life goes on, must go on, and to his mind, these seances and spiritualist meetings, far from being a healing process as Janet claimed, simply kept the wounds open and raw, bringing a fresh injection of grief that every failed attempt to contact Julia from beyond the shades of death brought with it.
They had journeyed across Yorkshire and Derbyshire to countless seances and spiritualist meetings in search of the answers Janet craved; to Sheffield, Huddersfield, Leeds, Scarborough, Chesterfield, Derby and Buxton. Janet scoured the internet for details of forthcoming meetings, hundreds of miles driven, hundreds of pounds in entrance fees. And all of it for nothing.
Janet’s life was on hold and tonight’s miserable offering was not going to be any different.
He checked his watch again, almost 7.30. ‘Maybe this farce’ll be over soon, and I can get back for the second half,’ but to his annoyance, Serrano did not enter until 7.40, as a smattering of applause greeted his arrival. ‘About bloody time,’ Donald thought.
He was younger than Janet expected, mid-thirties possibly, quite short, short brown hair that had already retreated to the top of his head. He was wearing a blue denim jacket, pale blue open-necked shirt, cream linen trousers, and tan Timberland loafers without socks and held a microphone in his right hand. He spread his arms out in welcome and gave his audience a beaming smile, any disappointment he felt at the meagre numbers well hidden.
‘Good evening and welcome, ladies and gentlemen, especially gentlemen, as I do know there are some important football matches this evening. Unfortunately, even though I am clairvoyant, I cannot tell you what the scores will be.’
‘Tosser!’ thought Donald, determined to be scornful about the entire event.
‘Firstly, a word of caution,’ Serrano continued, ‘the spirit world is not at our beck and call. It is not like picking up a telephone or texting on your mobile to make contact and receive a message. Now I am hopeful, nay confident, that we shall contact loved ones who have passed, but of course, this cannot be guaranteed.’
Donald leaned over to whisper in Janet’s ear, ‘See, he’s making his excuses already if he can’t communicate with anybody. Like I told you, a fraud.’
‘Shushhhhhh,’ she hissed back at him.
Serrano spread his arms out again. ‘Now, if I can have some quiet and we’ll begin. And please turn off your mobiles; there is nothing more distressing than a mobile phone going off when we are in the middle of a communication. Thank you.’
There was a rustling of clothes as mobiles were pulled out from pockets or from the depths of handbags and turned off. Donald pretended to turn his off also, but only put it on silent. He fully intended to check on the Newcastle/Real Madrid score as often as he could.
Serrano took in a deep theatrical breath, closed his eyes and steepled his hands together as if in prayer, resting his chin on his fingertips. For a minute or two he stood like that, the silence broken only by a discreet cough. He opened his eyes, stared up at the ceiling before taking another deep breath.
‘I’m getting… getting… a William? Do we have a William with us tonight?’
An elderly man seated four seats away from Janet and Donald raised his hand and as Janet looked around, another slightly younger man towards the rear also raised his hand.
‘Oh, there are two of you. I’m getting William’s wife. Have either of you gentlemen lost a wife, a wife who passed over recently?’
Both men raised their arms, although the man seated close to Janet and Donald stood up and glared angrily at the other, as if accusing him of deliberately interfering with the contact with his departed wife.
‘Hey, once again, the both of you. Right. Well, I’m sorry to say that it is not coming through very clearly just now. Whoever it was seems to have gone for the moment, but we’ll try again later. Please sit down, sir. I can feel your black aura, and it is disturbing the spirit world. Please sit.’
With another furious glare at the other bereaved man, he sat down with as much of a display of disgust as he could muster. Sebastian Serrano took a deep breath, desperate to bring the meeting back under control.
‘Sorry, gents,’ he said soothingly, ‘I know that you are anxious to hear from your loved ones, but a hostile atmosphere is not forthcoming, not welcoming for the spirits. As I say, the spirit world can be fickle at times, but I am getting something through now.’
He let the anticipation rise; if nothing else, he knew how to work an audience. After a stretched-out pause, he finally said, ‘Doris, I’m getting the name Doris. Is there a Doris with us tonight?’
A rather large elderly lady with blue-tinted hair, wearing a yellow flowered dress, raised her hand and then stood up.
‘I’m Doris. Doris Parsons. Is it for me?’
‘Hello, Doris. Doris love, I’m hearing Henry. Does the name Henry mean anything to you?’
‘Henry? Henry, yes, my husband.’
‘Doris, I have Henry with me now. You lost him recently, is that right?’
‘Hardly, no. It was six years ago.’
Serrano was slightly taken aback but quickly recovered his composure. ‘Six years ago? Well darling, in the spirit world, six years is nothing at all, almost like yesterday. Anyway, Doris, Henry is thinking of you. Thinks of you all the time and loves and misses you.’
‘Huh! He never did when he was alive, so why should he be bothering now?’
Donald snorted in derision. Janet dug him in the ribs with her elbow and hissed at him to be quiet again.
‘No, he’s long gone and best forgotten,’ Doris continued. ‘I’ve come here to hear from my sister. My twin sister, Doreen, who passed just a while ago.’
‘Sorry, Doris love. I’m not getting anything from a Doreen, but we’ll keep trying, won’t we? We’ve got all night. OK, darling?’
Doris was not pleased but sat down again and whispered something to her companion, a thin-faced woman who nodded in agreement with whatever was said.
Serrano steepled his hands again, closed his eyes, and nodded his head back and forth as if in a trance.
‘I’m getting a William again. Mary. Does the name Mary mean anything to either of you?’
Both men nodded and raised their hands.
‘Oh, once again it’s the two of you. You’ve both lost a Mary recently, how sad, how very sad. Oh, right. Which one of you gentlemen has James as a middle name?’
The bereaved man to the rear raised his hand. ‘That’s me, I’m William James. William James Furness,’ as the other William slumped down into his seat and held his head in his hands, as if defeated in an argument or fight.
‘I’m so sorry, sir—the other William, that is—I hope we can contact your dear Mary later. OK? Anyway, William James, Mary says she’s fine, sends her love to you and the children. Oh, and to the grandchildren. She says you must see the doctor about that cough, that you’re not to worry about her, and you will be reunited in your love one day. Is that all right? Good. Thank you. God bless you. Thank you.’
Sebastian took a drink from a bottle of mineral water and then went back into his steepled-hands-and-closed-eyes routine again as Donald sneaked a look at the score—still 0-0. Eyes still closed, Serrano held the audience waiting for a tension-filled minute or more before he turned his head to one side and said, ‘Janet. I’m now getting a Janet. Do we have a Janet with us tonight?’
Janet jerked back in cold shock, jolted to her core as a tsunami of emotions swept over her. She felt breathless, her stomach in turmoil, her heart pounding. ‘Janet? I’m Janet,’ she said softly as she tremblingly raised her hand, clutching the other hand to her heart.
‘Hello, Janet, tell me, love, does the name... Julia mean anything to you?’ Even Donald rocked back in shocked surprise. ‘Shit, maybe this guy is for real.’
‘Yes. Yes, oh yes. Julia! My darling daughter, Julia.’
‘Janet, I have Julia with me now. She’s asking... is Daddy there?’
Donald could hardly speak but then got himself under control. ‘Yes. Sweetheart. Daddy’s here.’
Sebastian half-turned his back to the audience before facing them again. He opened his mouth and began to speak. But the voice that came out was not that of Serrano, but rather that of a girl or woman—the voice was high-pitched, agitated and angry, but distinctly that of a young female. Despite the microphone in Serrano’s hand, those at the back still had to strain to hear the words, but Donald and Janet, seated no more than six feet away, heard every word clearly, and the hairs at the back of Donald’s head stood on end.
‘Daddy, you bastard! You evil, fucking bastard. All those things you made me do when Mummy wasn’t there. The things you did to me. Our little secret, you called it. That’s what little girls who love their daddy are supposed to do, you said. I hope your dick rots and falls off. Burn in Hell. Burn in Hell, you fucking bastard.’
With a scream of anguish, Janet turned to Donald, berating him, beating on his chest with her fists.
‘No, no, I didn’t. I never touched her, Janet, never. I swear.’
‘Then why is she saying that? Why? Why? Why?’
‘I don’t know, it’s all lies. Lies. I never did. I promise. Never.’
‘So why? Why would she make up such a thing? You bastard. Bastard. Get away from me.’
Others in the audience, after recovering from their shock, began to shout imprecations and swear at Donald. The disappointed William, four seats away, jabbed a finger at Donald, ‘Paedophile. Fucking paedophile. You want locking up, you do, you scum. Throw the keys away. Paedo!’
The hall was in uproar with shouts of ‘bastard, paedo, scum, monster, bastard-paedo, scum, filth, you piece of fucking shit’ ringing around the walls. Sebastian Serrano, sensing disaster, made a hurried, unnoticed exit through the door he came through, out to the backstage area of the hall.
‘Janet, I swear, I swear on my life that I never touched her. Ever!’ Donald turned to face the baying crowd, holding his arms out in supplication, although some were already making their way to the exit in disgust. ‘I never, never did anything to her,’ he pleaded. ‘She was my daughter, for God’s sake. I never touched her.’
‘Fucking liar,’ someone shouted. ‘We all heard it, you scumbag. Get out of here before I kick your face in.’
‘Honest. Janet, I swear on everything. I... never... touched... her.’
‘I don’t believe you. That’s why she went the way she did, isn’t it? The drugs, the overdose. All because of you and what you did to her.’
Donald wrung his hands in agitation. How could he make her see? How could he make her believe? It was a nightmare. He was a respectable middle-aged, well-thought-of, basically decent man accused of one of the vilest crimes a man can commit—sexual assaults on his own daughter.
‘No. No. It’s all lies. All lies,’ but it sounded tame and false even as he said it.
‘Then why is she saying it, if it’s not true?’
‘Yeah, what about that?’ demanded one of the more aggressive accusers.
Just then, another Easedale volunteer entered the hall, waving her arms up and down for quiet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry, but we are unable to continue. Mr Serrano feels that the ambience is not conducive to further consultations. Please make your way to the exit. Regretfully, there can be no refunds. Thank you.’
‘That’s thirty-four quid down the drain,’ someone else grumbled. The rest of the audience made their way to the exit, apart from one of the more belligerent men. He was only about 5’7” in height but bristled with aggression, fists clenched in anger. ‘I see you in the street, pal, I’ll fucking do you, you scum,’ and pushed Donald in the chest with a stiff finger before stomping out to where his wife was waiting. Only Donald and Janet now remained in the room.
Janet, her arms crossed in fierce anger, stared at Donald. ‘How could you do it? How could you do that to Julia? Tell me. How?’
‘I didn’t. I didn’t.’
‘Then why is she saying that?’ Janet demanded, so angry that if she had had a gun in her hand, she could have shot him dead there and then.
‘I don’t know. We don’t even know if that was Julia. He, Serrano, could have been making it up.’
‘How could he be making it up, that was Julia speaking? Your daughter, you heard her voice.’
‘We don’t… He could… I… I…,’ Donald raised his hands in frustration, unable to get his protestations of innocence across.
‘I want to see him,’ Janet said, ‘get to the truth of it.’ And she made for the door leading to the backstage area.
‘Janet, you can’t just go barging in on him.’
But she took no notice of him and carried on, as Donald reluctantly followed her through the door. They were met by the volunteer who had advised that the meeting was over.
‘You can’t come back here, it’s private.’
‘I want to see him, this Sebastian. I want to see him.’
‘I told you it’s private, you have to go back.’
‘I’m going to see him,’ Janet repeated.
‘Janet, you heard what she said, it’s private,’ Donald said, taking Janet’s arm to lead her away, but she shrugged it off.
‘You can shut up and all, all the use you are,’ she said and tried to edge past the volunteer, who stepped back to block her.
‘I’m telling you, you can’t see him.’
‘Why not, he’s here in a dressing room, isn’t he?’
‘No, he’s left already.’
‘Left? Already?’
‘Yes. Gone. Elvis has left the building. Said that all the disruptions and such disturbed his karma.’
‘I’ll disturb his fucking karma, if I ever get my hands on him,’ snapped Donald, ‘telling lies like that.’
CHAPTERSIX
They drove home in silent anger.
Janet was scrunched into her seat, as far away from Donald as she could get, her arms rigidly crossed, her nostrils flaring as she stared intensely ahead, as if to find answers in the lights of the oncoming traffic. Donald had tried to talk to her as they set out for home, but she sharply told him to shut up, there was nothing he could say; they had heard what they had heard. He had interfered with Julia, which was why she ran away and killed herself with drugs. It was all his fault.
She felt that she didn’t even know this man, her husband. For more than 28 years he had slept in her bed, made love to her and all the while he was… was what? Having sex with their daughter?
How long had it been going on? Where did he do it? In their bed? In her bed? She wanted to know but did not want to ask the questions for fear of what else she might find out. Did he interfere with David as well? Was that why he was so angry all the time? She was so distraught she felt suicidal, wanting to grab the steering wheel and drive the car straight into the path of an oncoming lorry, the only way she could see out of this misery.
Donald was equally angry, angry at Janet’s stubborn refusal to listen. Why would she not accept that he had never touched Julia. Never! And he gripped the steering wheel even tighter, wishing that it was the throat of that… that charlatan Serrano. How could Julia have been speaking through him? It made no sense. None of it made sense. None of the other supposedly contacted dead, William’s wife or Doris’s husband, had spoken in their own voices, so why was Julia’s ‘contact’ the only one coming out of his lying mouth in her own voice?
